Warrior Fae Trapped: A DDVN Book

by Breene, K. F.

  “Who was that chick?” Dillon asked.

  “The one on the right, the pretty blonde, was invited. Samantha Kent,” Devon said without inflection, hiding his unease. “Her daddy is some big-shot CEO. She has a trust, I think, but Vlad isn’t after her. He wants her dad. He’s going to try to use the daughter to get what he wants from the old man.”

  Vlad was a cunning, ruthless elder vampire who thought nothing of breaking magical law in the Brink, what magical people called the human world. Vampires were prohibited from changing humans, but the elder didn’t intend to ask for permission, either from the humans he planned to change or the shifters who regulated magical law in the Brink.

  “I meant the other one. She doesn’t belong,” Dillon said.

  “No, she doesn’t.” Devon leaned against his SUV and kept from clenching his jaw. “Jessica Young was invited. That was not Jessica Young.”

  “Was she a last-minute change?” Jimmy asked, easily their least prepared and most immature pack member. “Or is she in the way wrong place at the absolutely worst time?”

  Devon directed his gaze back toward the private road. “I don’t know.”

  “I recognize that chick.” Andy scratched his nose, expression troubled. His dirty-blond hair stuck up at all angles, the result of using his fingers for a comb after his surf earlier. “She’s in my physics class. Damn smart. Dresses like a poor street kid. Smells funny.”

  Devon remembered the way the gal had scowled when he’d noticed her lack of jewelry, something none of Samantha’s friends would leave the house without. They wore bling like it was an art form. Instead of inviting scrutiny, as Samantha always did, this woman shied away from it. If her eyes could’ve literally shot knives, he would’ve had to change to his wolf form to heal from the wounds.

  “Why would Vlad be interested in a poor street kid?” Dillon asked.

  “He wouldn’t, unless there is something we don’t know.” Devon bit back the annoyance in his voice. Surprises were liable to get his whole pack killed. He turned back to Andy. “Smells funny how?”

  Andy shrugged and ran his fingers through his hair. “Dunno. She just…doesn’t smell right.”

  Devon pushed away from the bumper of his car. “Is it something we’ve got to worry about tonight? Or is the smell because she doesn’t shower?”

  “She smells good. Tantalizing. She’s that Sammie girl’s roommate. Maybe she got sucked into this gig. The girl is dirt poor, I hear. White trash or something.” Andy scratched his chest, catching a hole in his T-shirt and ripping it a little bigger. He didn’t seem to notice. “I definitely tried to hit that. You can tell she’s feisty, ya know? She wasn’t havin’ none of it. Hah! She ignored me. She’s jonesing after that Donnie kid that got an invite. It’s obvious.”

  Dillon snorted, throwing his arm around his girlfriend Macy’s shoulders. “This surprises you?”

  “Hey, man! I can usually get the girls. Not as good as Devon, okay sure, but I’m freaking hot, yo. Girls like me.”

  “Not all girls, apparently.” Dillon chortled.

  Devon hit each of them with a hard stare. Nerves were to be expected in these situations. Hell, they were going up against the baddest vamp he knew. He’d question his pack if they weren’t a little squirrelly. But there was a difference between nervous jitters and acting the fool. They were currently skirting the line.

  As expected, their smiles withered.

  “I don’t think we have to worry about her,” Andy said. “She can’t have anything a vamp like Vlad would want. Except blood. Maybe she’s the blood bank for after.”

  That wasn’t any better.

  “Can’t save ’em if they don’t want to be saved,” Rod, the largest of the pack, said as he glanced up the dark drive.

  Rod was right. The chick had made her choice. Devon couldn’t do anything about it now. They’d set up shop dangerously close, and if he approached the house too soon, he’d alert the vampires. They had to wait a couple of hours, and by then, everyone who’d drunk the turning potion would be as good as gone.

  “When’s this going to go down, again?” Rod asked, digging his hands into his pockets and turning away.

  Anticipation ran through Devon. This was his first big changing party. His first real chance to prove himself to Roger, the alpha of the North American region. Devon needed everything to go perfectly. He needed his pack to be on top of their game.

  “I was told two or three,” Devon answered, breathing through the flip-flopping of his belly. He had to stop thinking about the stakes. It was messing with his head. “Roger doesn’t think Vlad knows we’re on to him. Vlad apparently hopes this party will go like the one he threw in Europe two months ago.”

  The European pack had recently lost their alpha when a powerful mage had up and ripped the shifter out of him. No one had even known that was possible, but from that time onward, Europe had been scrambling to place someone new. Powerful shifters from across the region kept trying to fight their way to the top, disturbing the lesser packs and sending everything into disarray.

  Despite a short-lived truce between the shifters and vampires, formed for a collective storming of the Mages’ Guild’s compound, Vlad hadn’t hesitated to take advantage of the upheaval in Europe. He’d waltzed in, changed twenty people right under the shifters’ noses, and then waltzed back out, unscathed.

  But this was the North American region, and Santa Cruz was Devon’s territory. Despite being part of the team that had collaborated with Vlad for the Mages’ Guild compound, he wasn’t about to stand back so their former ally could waltz into his territory and make new vamps. Finding out about the party had been a stroke of luck—the bastard had been cocky enough to send out paper invitations to girls that couldn’t help bragging. Alerting Roger of it had earned Devon this emergency detail. His pack’s job was to stand guard until Roger arrived with his crew. The more experienced shifters would then take out the middle-tier vamps and go head to head with Vlad, while Devon and his pack headed off and discharged any newbie vamps. They’d make sure Vlad’s attempts to increase his numbers failed.

  A pity they had to wait until the changing process was underway, but Devon knew his limitations. He couldn’t take on the elder without Roger. Even Roger would be hard-pressed to take on Vlad with his last-minute, thrown-together team. They had to wait until the vamps were at their weakest. Besides which, making new vampires was a crime, but hosting a party was not. They had to catch Vlad in the act.

  He checked his phone for the umpteenth time. No service. They’d have no way of communicating with Roger. Vlad had found a perfect spot to turn new vamps. No cell service, a long private drive attached to a one-way road, no neighbors for miles. He was trapping his victims until they became his allies.

  Devon’s mind drifted back to that gal. Soon she’d be cut off, too. She’d be trapped in a house with a host of hungry vampires.

  Chapter Five

  Samantha’s dainty fingers curled around an ornate knocker resting on the wide double door. Apparently the invitation had said to use the knocker rather than the doorbell.

  “I have to say, despite the remote location, this house is pretty sweet,” Charity whispered, breathing in the fresh floral scent from the many flowers lining the walkway behind them. She rubbed her arms, trying to shake off the strange tingling that had started once they passed through the perimeter gates. It had only gotten worse as they approached the house. “Feels a bit creepy, though, doesn’t it?”

  “Shh. Don’t embarrass me.” Sam banged the knocker against the solid wood.

  “You’re using a gargoyle door knocker on a state-of-the-art, modern house, and you’re worried about me embarrassing you?”

  Samantha banged the knocker a second time before stepping away and fussing with the hem of her dress. It wasn’t going to get any lower.

  Metal tinkled before the door swung open, revealing a young man in his twenties with a pale, handsome face and a flawless complexion. His acute gaze hit
Samantha first, then stalled on Charity.

  “You smell ravishing,” he said, hunger lighting his eyes.

  Charity frowned. She hadn’t put on any perfume, mostly because she didn’t own any, and she hadn’t showered since morning. She had no idea what this guy might be smelling on her, especially since Sam smelled like a perfume factory after an earthquake. Surely one whiff of Sam would deaden his senses.

  “Thanks,” she said in a doubtful tone.

  “Please.” He stepped to the side and swung his arm toward the interior. “Come in.”

  “Thank you.” Samantha gave the man a winning smile and brushed her hair to her back as she passed him, her shiny blonde tresses adding movement to her slow saunter. He didn’t notice.

  “Your house is absolutely lovely.” Sam half turned back, her eyes glittering suggestively. “I’m Samantha, by the way. You can call me Sam.”

  “I know.” He closed the door, and his dark eyes lingered on Charity. “This isn’t my house. I am but the greeter. Did you find us okay?” He waved them forward.

  “Oh.” A small frown bent Sam’s features as the group crossed the grand entranceway and started down a wide hallway decked out in wood and marble, with vaulted ceilings and interesting abstract paintings adorning the light gray walls. “We did, yes.”

  Off to the left, a sitting room opened up. A woman stood in the center, wearing a long leather duster over a ribbed black and red lacy corset. Tight leather pants tucked into leather boots with four-inch stilettos. Her outfit was as sexy as it was strange, and she looked like an absolute badass, even though she wouldn’t be running very fast in those shoes. Then again, given Charity was teetering around like a clown on stilts, she wouldn’t go very fast, either. If the zombie apocalypse happened later on, they were sunk.

  The woman’s head turned slowly from the window she’d been focused on, revealing an angelic face with flawless, radiant skin not unlike that of their still-unnamed greeter. The woman’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  “Welcome,” she said in a sultry, feminine hum. Tingles of apprehension filtered through Charity. There was something familiar about her tone. The pleasing quality of the word.

  Charity shivered. Murmurs drifted out of a room up the way, and light spilled across the shiny hardwood floor.

  “Follow me,” the man said, before darting around them, his movements faster than they should’ve been, considering his previous pace. More shivers arrested Charity as her mind flashed back to the man she’d noticed at school the previous night. His speed. His fighter’s grace and balance.

  “What is wrong with you?” Samantha said out of the side of her mouth. “Stop rubbing yourself. It’s not cold in here.”

  Charity took her hands off her arms as the man turned the corner into a large dining room with a crystal chandelier hanging over a dark wood table that could comfortably seat at least twelve. China and crystal peeked out of cabinets against the wall, and a leafy plant on a pedestal in the corner gave the space a comforting splash of green.

  The room was empty, but she could hear the hum of conversation. The other guests were nearby.

  “It feels a little…” Charity paused when the man looked back, that focused gaze clamming her up. For some reason, she didn’t want him to know she thought the environment felt…off.

  Dangerous.

  Or was that Devon guy in her head? She had excellent instincts, but she had to be able to listen to them.

  “Why was that woman standing in that room by herself?” Charity asked as they crossed the space.

  “She is making sure no unwanted…guests attempt to sneak in,” the man said, pausing by a closed door.

  Sam nodded, as if it were perfectly normal for a woman to stand sentinel in the middle of a dim room, staring out a window at the side yard in case party crashers planned to traipse in through the bushes.

  Charity couldn’t help but grip Sam’s wrist, the urge to turn back and run strengthening. Sam swore under her breath when she shook her off, then said, “Don’t make me regret bringing you.”

  “I already regret you bringing me.”

  They stepped just beyond the door and into a large kitchen awash with light and littered with pretty and trendy people holding what looked like shimmering crystal goblets. All maintained artfully bored expressions despite the price of the drinkware in their hands.

  “Enjoy.” The man turned and moved off in the direction they’d come, apparently off to greet more partiers.

  “Why use the door knocker if someone has to stand close by to hear it?” Charity asked.

  “He’s welcoming the guests, hello? Did you see his suit? It was top quality and tailored. It must’ve cost a fortune.”

  Charity hadn’t even noticed he was wearing a suit. She’d been too distracted by his hungry gaze. Every time she’d glanced at him, his eyes had been on her.

  Serial killers didn’t congregate together at parties, did they? They were more lone-wolf types?

  Though even if they did, it wouldn’t be the best move to target wealthy kids for a massacre. Their parents would hire the best lawyers, and the press and public interest would ensure the cops stayed on the job and found the killers.

  She shook her head. Sam was probably right about that guy Devon. Hot guys played girls for sport. What could possibly be dangerous about this setup?

  And yet…

  “If anyone says anything about a basement, I’m out,” Charity murmured.

  “He was my age, too. I wonder if he’s single,” Sam whispered, running her lip through her blindingly white teeth. Her line of thinking had clearly gone a completely different direction.

  “I think you should aim higher than the door-knocker guy. He wouldn’t be much fun to hang around with, standing in the front, staring at the door, waiting for someone new to come knocking…”

  “God you’re weird. This is why you get A’s in creative writing.”

  “I get A’s in creative writing because I do my homework and study for tests.”

  “That too. Hmm.” Sam tossed her hair before slinking down into a sexy pose, pushing out her breasts and jutting her hip to the side. “Look at all the hotties.”

  Charity followed her gaze, taking in the room. Guys and gals, all of them close in age to Charity and Samantha, gathered around an island in a sea of granite. An elegant crystal bowl of punch rested in the middle of the counter. Five or so people hovered around with their goblets, laughing nervously while shooting furtive glances at the beautiful people around them.

  “Well, I’ll be. Devon was right. Punch? What are we, at a high school dance in 1982?” Charity asked, also glancing at the devastatingly handsome and beautiful people around the periphery of the room. Their suits and dresses fit their fantastic bodies perfectly, and each had glittering accessories to match—jewelry for the women and cufflinks for the men. They stood at ease in groups of two or three, chatting with one another but often not facing one another. Their attention was instead fixed on the slightly younger and definitely less polished group around the punch bowl. It was like they were at a dance and awkwardly waiting for members of the opposite sex to ask them for a dance.

  “It is like high school,” Charity said. “I hated high school.”

  “That’s because you were a nerd.”

  “Nope. It was because I was labeled a poor, stinky kid who ate garbage and lived on the other side of the tracks.”

  “Gross. T-M-I.”

  “Awesome. I knew you’d lend a compassionate ear. I did shower, by the way. Anyway, why doesn’t anyone on the perimeter of the room have a drink?” Dropping her voice to a whisper, she added, “Do you think Devon was right about it being spiked? Also, isn’t it odd that we’re standing here, staring at everyone?”

  “You’re staring. I’m taking it all in.”

  “Yes, right. Clearly different.”

  “The punch is obviously just spiked with alcohol or people would already be acting weird,” Sam said to herself, chuckling a l
ittle. “Devon was a little too dramatic in his scare tactics. I need to start mingling before he gets here. He’ll want me more if someone else has my interest.”

  “Aren’t these parties supposed to have kegs and cans of beer and shots of tequila? I mean…punch?”

  “It’s classy. Come on.” Samantha started forward, graceful despite those huge heels.

  Charity clattered after her like a newborn colt just learning to walk. “Why do people wear shoes this tall? They are horribly uncomfortable.”

  Samantha smiled at a decent-looking guy with a slouch and an expensive watch. He nodded in hello and scooted to the side, making room for the new additions.

  “Hi,” Sam said to a girl with airbrushed makeup as she grabbed a goblet from a silver platter. She shifted her gaze back to the people arrayed around the edges of the room. They all had flawless skin, like the other two people Charity had seen upon entering the mansion. Their unblinking stares focused on the kids with the punch. It was like they were waiting for something.

  The shrooms to kick in, perhaps? Maybe their next line of coke?

  With their effortless perfection and mannequin-like poise, they had to be models. At least, most of them did. They’d clearly been brought in to give the party some flare. There was no other explanation. Given punch was full of sugar, and these people were all slim and muscular, perfectly defined, Charity would bet they were seeing purple elephants and short men with green hair. No wonder they weren’t revolting over the lack of drink options—the drugs were keeping them plenty busy.

  Charity started as crystal was thrust at her. She glanced at the thruster, a platinum-blonde girl in her mid-twenties with a fierce scowl.

  “No, I’m okay,” Charity said. “I think the side effect to punch might be scowling a lot…”

  The scowl strengthened.

  Don’t tease the rich people, Charity.

  The girl shifted her scowl to Sam, who was just realizing something was amiss.